Perspectives
by Dilection
Summary: Ever looked through a kaleidoscope? All you have to do is turn it slightly and you've got a new perspective. Well, here we'll start in the center and work our way out, twisting and turning the layers as we go.
1. Tali

Hi. I'm reuploading this because there were some typos that I wanted to fix, as well as the birth month- I realize I initially said March when I meant May. This is the most significant change, though it matters very little in terms of the plot here.

I really hope the concept of this story makes sense but, if it doesn't now, it definitely should by the second chapter. Let me know what you think either way though, please. I'm taking some artistic liberties here as well, predominantly with Tali's birth month. May's birthstone is emerald which looks similar enough to the pendant she wore in season 16.

Plus: "Emerald opens and nurtures the heart and the Heart Chakra. Its soothing energy provides healing to all levels of the being, bringing freshness and vitality to the spirit. A stone of inspiration and infinite patience, it embodies unity, compassion and unconditional love." Seems fitting enough.

* * *

She is born on a May morning at a hospital downtown- 9:37 am in room 312, to be exact. It's mere hours of labor until her bright pink baby mouse body is placed atop her ima's chest, crying and all. 10 fingers, 10 toes, and a full head of hair. A delicate finger brushes ever so lightly against her round cheek before she reaches her tiny baby fingers up to grip it. She won't remember this, of course, not the whiteness of the walls or the quietness of the room when all but ima departed. But she knows that this was important. She knows that this is the start.

It will be 10 months before she takes her first wobbly steps on untrained baby legs. 1-2-3-aaannndd-crash, right into ima's waiting arms. Before she knows it, she's squealing and spinning around, clutched tightly against ima's chest. It's not until the joyful celebration subsides that she notices the tear sprung from ima's eye. She rests her clumsy, chubby, hand against the familiar face and is rewarded with a delicate smile.

It's an average spring day, with already scorching temperatures, when her and ima head to the market. Fish, vegetables, fruit, she knows. Not yet tall enough to see the contents laid out on the market tables- even on tippy-toes, even stretched up, up, up in the stroller. She knows, she's tried. Sometimes, though, ima's arms come down from high above to pull her up. She points and ima grabs, questioning each selection with a raised brow to which she responds with a firm affirmative nod. But today, she falls asleep and ima wakes her later, shopping done though still at the market, and offers her a pastry.

She's one and a half and runs everywhere, now. Fast and incredibly agile, she is able to navigate nearly any terrain with minimal need for magic band-aid kisses. The olive grove is her favorite, all the trees to zig and zag between. It feels infinite. Ima laughs while planting flowers and reminds her to stay near. She is sitting on the warm earth sometime later when her name echoes from above. She waits for ima's arms to come down and swoop her body up, momentarily reversing gravity. But it doesn't happen. Instead, ima sinks down silently beside her and pulls her close. She swears they stay there for hours but when ima pushes herself back to a standing position, she sees that the sun has barely moved from its position in the sky. She thinks that maybe, on the warm earth between the endless olive trees, time moves differently.

Bedtime is, surprisingly, one of her favorite times. She doesn't remember when it started, perhaps it began before she'd even been earth-side. But, each night, ima comes, sits on her bed, and pulls out the pictures. There aren't many, maybe 10, but her little eyes look over the images with renewed wonder each night. They always sit, silently, for several minutes before it begins. Ima's long, graceful finger points to the familiar face of the stranger and mostly, her eyes look distant. Sometimes, she hears the tale of her heroic aba, always finding her lost ima. Other times, she hears of aba's movie lined wall and a shared pizza. She giggles when ima does, even when she doesn't understand. Ima never answers when she asks where aba is though, both settling for a tight hug and goodnight kiss. She wonders if aba will ever be more than just a story.

Wednesday afternoon and she is meant to be watching her movie. A treat, she knows, and only because of ima's cold. But she is almost two now and oh so curious. She waits, feigning incredible interest in the television set, and slides carefully from the bed only when light snores fill the air. She moves as quietly as a coordinated toddler possibly can. Moving through the room, she takes in the sparse décor. The TV resting on top of the dresser, the bookstand with one shelf reassigned for DVDs, the pictures on the nightstand. She goes directly to the closet and breathes in the familiar scent of ima. Crawling and pushing her way to the back, she sits down next to the lightly-worn envelope before pouring out aba's pictures. She doesn't know how long she's there, Lightening McQueen's still busy racing in the other room, before she hears ima yell for her. She clambers her way through the sea of clothes and lands face first in the closet's doorway. She blinks just once before arms are around her and they're rocking back and forth, together. She knows she broke the unspoken rule but wonders why ima is the one crying and not her.

She wakes up early, too early, on her second birthday. It's 4:52 am and the sky is still dark outside her room, the olive trees swallowed by it. Her little feet carry her down the hall to ima's room where a sleepy hand pushes the door agape. Except, the scene is not what she expects. Ima is sitting in the middle of her bed, a halo of soft light around her originating from the lamp on the bedside table. _Motek, _ima greets in surprise though the now two-year-old eyes are focused on the large book resting on the bed. Ima helps her climb up and whispers her a happy birthday wish. She squirms, reaches, grabs, and asks about the book. She flips it open before ima can respond. Suddenly, she's staring back at pages covered in a mixture of grainy black and white pictures and words. Ima sits but doesn't speak, so little fingers flip the pages. Next, a baby wrapped up tight, her smile after growing her first tooth, her hair spiked up and covered in suds from the bath, her first birthday, and about a million moments in between. There are words accompanying each picture, sometimes just a few but sometimes, the words seem to spill off the page. She feels ima breathe deeply and looks up, over, at the warm brown eyes. Ima tells her about the memory book and explains some of the pictures. _Aba? _her little voice asks quietly while her eyebrows move together. Ima only nods. That night, she silently wishes aba were there to watch her blow out her birthday candles. She wonders if he even knows that she is two today.

Ima is rushing through her room, pulling her little shirts and pants from their dresser drawers and stuffing them into her bag. Her two-year-old body sits frozen on the ground, wide-eyed. Ima moves like a neat tornado and she pretends that it doesn't scare her. She knows that this is different, somehow, and blames ima's friend who stopped by the day before. When ima bursts from the room, she cries and cries and cries. That night, she snuggles close in ima's bed, clutches her new Kalev tight, and fights against her heavy lids for as long as she can.

It's three days later when ima's friend returns. Confused, she wants to run and run until they cannot find her. She imagines herself running through the olive trees, disappearing into their vastness. She's sure that if she curls her little body up deep in the grove, they'd leave her be. She'd be sure to bring Kalev, remembering how ima told her he'd protect her. But she knows that this is not the time nor place for games or running. Ima and her friend speak quietly at the kitchen table in that language that Ima thinks she does not yet fully understand. Heavy air and papers are scattered between the two. She hears her name before she hears her aba's name and her heart pounds like a drum. She realizes only that she's clamped her eyes shut and covered her ears when ima's gentle hands swallow hers up. _Motek, _ima says though her voice breaks halfway through and she just knows. She may be little but she is also her mother's daughter, and she is certainly not dumb. She throws her toddler arms around ima's neck and screams, sobs, shakes, until she drifts off into a restless sleep. Ima's whispers of a_ni ohevet otach_ the last thing she remembers.

She is two years and 17 days old when she is standing in the big, strange building. The bright orange walls feel as foreign to her as the ocean of faces around her. The strange man at the big desk greets her with a gentle _shalom _but it does not bring her any comfort. In this place, everyone speaks that language and assumes she doesn't understand. She bites her tongue when they begin to talk about her and grips ima's friends hand a little tighter. She wants to bury her face against Kalev's soft body but fidgets with her feet instead. She stops listening to the adults talk and instead daydreams of the olive grove, market pastries, and her nightstand picture of ima and aba. The conversation around her stops abruptly and ima's friend asks her if she's hungry. All it takes in a nod and she is led from the room.

A chocolate chip muffin later and she is back outside the office of _shalom _man. She is two and clever and she doesn't understand. She squeezes Kalev and the hand in hers as the door is opened. She sees the ground, sees that there are more shoes occupying the space now. She wants to run, more than ever before, but there are no trees around and no ima to find her. She looks up, then, when she hears her name fall from imas friends' lips. She almost feels reality crumble beneath her as she finally, _finally,_ stares into her aba's eyes.

Though she has lived only a short two years, there are some things she knows with certainty. For instance: the sun comes up each morning and she prefers strawberries to blueberries. She also knows, though, that: her ima loves her. And, in all the tales she's heard, ima and aba are always brave and heroic. And aba always finds ima. So she does not look away, cant. And aba, in all his shocked and confused glory, holds her gaze.


	2. Ziva

She is 31 when she sends the love of her life away in some grand display of selfless stupidity. If she's being truly honest with herself, she doesn't know why she does it. In fact, she almost doesn't. Because he looks at her and tells her that it's not too late. And she's just standing there, feeling her resolve melting, melting, melting in the crisp night air of the tarmac. Almost. But she knows: she can't go back and, she decides: this is it. So, she kisses him with a fiery urgency in the blackness, chokes over her words, and watches him walk away and up. She's frozen in place, watching the sky, until the plane dissolves into nothingness.

She grieves and mourns, perhaps for the first time in all her years. She is an onen, almost. It's the tail end of summer and impossibly warm in the old farmhouse. Everything sticks, clings, swelters. Still, she wears his fire-red-left-behind Ohio State shirt like a suit of armor. It takes just 3 days for his scent to leave her sheets and shirt and when it does, she feels something inside her snap. She wants to bury them between the olive trees but washes, dries, and folds them neatly instead. The crisp stack of bedding sits on her kitchen table for a week before she shoves them to the far corner of her linen closet.

It's the first week of October when she considers the possibility. Sure, she may always be better with knives than numbers, but she calculates, recalculates, recalculates, until her brain feels numb. Swimming in numbers and doubt-riddled maybes, she pees on the stick anyway. One, and then another, and another. Minutes pass and then suddenly she's standing in the middle of her bathroom with a fist full of pink plusses in her trembling hand. That night, she watches her ceiling rather than her dreams. She wonders if he misses her as she misses him.

It's been just over two weeks, now, and she still cannot believe that she's carrying a currently olive-sized baby. She wants to tell him, honest, but doesn't know how. She dials the numbers that comprise his phone number only to erase them all before hitting call, opens their abandoned IM chat but X's out of it before hitting send. Her self-exiling words pound in her head like a drum; _I need to do this alone_. Instead, she buys a photo album. She buys the biggest one with the fancy glossy pages and leather front. He'd like it, she's sure. The first page she fills with her writing, an apology of sorts. She pastes the grainy black and white picture of _their_ olive baby on the following page and writes the date. She knows this is not enough but at least it's something.

She has become an expert of almosts by now. In fact, she thinks that all she may ever know is almost. Her doctor is stringing together words like _high _and _risk _but all she can think about is the mango sized girl growing inside her. She's sure that her doctor realizes she's not listening when she feels a hand on hers before being handed a write up of her do's and don'ts. A genuinely grateful _todah _later and she is walking out the door. That night, she bargains with herself, with her daughter, with her God.

Orli visits, mid-January and unannounced, her arrival only made apparent thanks to a reverberating knock-knock-knock on the front door. Cautiously, she pulls the door open and watches the woman's eyes grow wide as they fall from her face to her protruding belly. She offers no explanation, only asks Orli if she'd like some tea. She does not wait, though, for a response before turning to the kitchen, filling the kettle, and turning the stove on. They sit and now she does wait until the other woman speaks, reveals to her that someone has been asking questions. She listens, mostly silent, with a hand on her abdomen. Orli's parting words stuck in her mind long after her car has driven away, long after the sun gives way to the moon. "_Mossad has wronged you and I have wronged you. But, I would like to help. To… make amends." _

May comes at an excruciating pace. Confined to her bed almost exclusively at this point, she cannot believe the burden her body has become. When the water finally breaks between her thighs, she feels relief before the fear sets in. Of course she drives herself to the birthing center, breathing hard between waves of pain. She labors for a grueling 36 hours and cries when her squirming, screaming, bright red daughter is placed on her chest. Far away, someone asks her about a name and she vaguely recalls issuing the reply of _Tali Elizabeth DiNozzo David_. Her eyes, though, never leave the baby in question. She is warm and small and perfect, equipped with a head full of dark hair and, when she looks up, her fathers piercing eyes.

The first weeks are hard, she admits. All the copious and intense trainings she's ever endured have failed to prepare her for the 12-2-4-6am feedings and blowout diapers. She takes it all in stride, even tries to use it as proof that this would disrupt his life too much. Only sometimes, when Tali dozes off in the early morning hours, does she allow herself to imagine him there too. She wouldn't trade these moments for oblivion, either, she decides. So, she tells their daughter elaborate tales of aba that she knows the 3-week old won't remember. She takes infinite pictures and pastes them in the book. She wishes she had been less stubborn, she considers changing her mind.

Two weeks later, she finds Orli waiting by her door again. The woman stands, patiently, a tray of food extended between the two. She contemplates the moment, what it means to accept the offering, what it means to refuse. With pursed lips, she reaches out and takes the dish just as the infant inside announces her awakening. She feels Orli's eyes on her as she changes, feeds, and burps her daughter, and she feels the air leave her lungs when the woman announces that, _"motherhood looks good on you."_ Then, she begins to share. She talks about herself, her daughter, her frustrations and triumphs. And when she begins to tell Orli about _Tony_, she swears she's really lost her mind. Must be all the sleepless nights, she thinks. They talk for hours, measuring the time in tea kettle refills and Tali feedings. When dusk begins to fall, she walks Orli to the door and the women part ways with an embrace.

She falls into a routine, eventually. Wake, breakfast, nap, lunch, nap, dinner, bed. Somewhere in between, there is also some play and an occasional grocery run, for good measure. Her days start and end with Tali and for the first time, perhaps ever, she feels as though she has a real purpose. She basks in the renewed amazement at each skill Tali picks up- the crawling, the steps, the first words. She documents it all.

Orli's last visit comes just days after Tali's first birthday. The air is warm and heavy in the farmhouse when she's told that the pressure is mounting, that someone is really digging now. In the back of her mind, she remembers how Tali screamed each time she tried to feed her peach purée. She wants to scream like that now, scream at the injustice of it all. The life she fought so hard to leave behind dragging her back, again. Orli assures her that there is no immediate threat currently, but she is well seasoned and knows better, knows that the key word is _yet_, knows that Orli knows this too. So, they plan. They sit, as always, but the air stays heavy today as they debate the worst case what ifs. Fear, anger, and regret swirl inside her, a cocktail that makes her sick to her stomach, makes her clutch her daughter tighter to her. Finally, they agree, begrudgingly, that they cannot risk meeting again, not until the situation is addressed. When she closes the door on her friend, the finality of it seems to echo. She drags Tali's bed into her room that evening and deposits it on the far side of the room, next to her own.

They resume their normal lives, though she finds herself looking over her shoulder in a way that she never thought she would again. She finds herself wishing, selfishly perhaps, that Tony were there more and more. Two pairs of watchful eyes on their daughter would definitely trump one. But like always, she waited too long, they missed their chance. She pushes the stroller through the winding market, making purchases as she and her sleeping daughter move along. It has been six months now with nothing but, as she's turning to leave, an agent slips her a note and the act fills her veins with ice because she knows, if they can find her so can anyone. The note sits, feels like a bomb, in her pocket until they're back home where she smooths it angrily against the coffee table. The neat Hebrew print tells her that _Mossad has reason to believe that: they know who she is and Mossad knows: someone is keeping tabs on her friends at NCIS. _

Nothing happens after she's received the note and she thinks about how anti-climatic this would be in a movie. They go out just the bare minimum now, though Tali seems not to notice, since taken to running and weaving between the olive trees. Still, she makes a conscious effort to talk about aba more, outside of just bedtime, knowing that it could happen any day. The more she talks and Tali listens, the more she sees the longing grow in her daughters eyes, the guiltier she feels for the mess she's made.

She knows its time when Orli appears again, no warnings given. After a year of near silence, the visit can mean only one of two things though the somber look on the Mossad directors face gives it away. She steps aside and silently lets the woman in. They sit and speak in hushed English, mindful of a playing Tali mere feet away. She knows that it matters very little though, of course her daughter is listening. Orli stays only as long as needed, solidifying that this is certainly no social visit, though on her way out, she does stop to kneel before Tali and offer the girl a neatly wrapped gift and a soft _happy birthday, Tali._

The next day, she packs her daughters bag. The impossibly small shirts and pants all packed away in the go-bag make her eyes water and she silently vows that this is not it. When she runs from the room to grab the framed photo, Tali's wails hurt more than any imaginable torture. She knows that the little girl understands just enough to know that something is changing, not enough to know what. She wraps the picture frame in her scarf and shoves it deep into the go-bag before swooping Tali up and carrying her to bed.

Three days later marks the worst day of her life. Orli arrives with a stack of files that they comb through. She studies everything they've managed to learn about those after her which is, admittedly, not much. Still, she commits it all to memory. And then, they're done. No more paperwork to discuss, no more planning left to do. Orli assures her that Tony will keep Tali safe, that she will make sure of it. But really, it's no comfort to her. And as if she can sense it, Tali shuts down. A renewed wave of anger and regret washes over her- she never wanted this for herself, much less her daughter. So, she does the only thing she still can, she crushes her daughter against her and tells her that she loves her, she loves her, she loves her. She waits for Tali's breathing to even out, tell-tale sign of sleep, before she buckles her into the car seat Orli had installed in the back of her car. She watches the black car drive off with her daughter until the taillights are no more. Then, she slips into the cool night air herself. She's out no more than 10 minutes when she hears the explosion, feels the reverberation, and smells the smoke of the mortar strike currently setting her childhood home ablaze.


End file.
